


Flesh and Bone

by Smutnug



Series: Flesh and Bone [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27060460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smutnug/pseuds/Smutnug
Summary: Playing Inquisition again gave me the Isobel/Blackwall feels and what can I say, at least it's writing
Relationships: Blackwall | Thom Rainier/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall | Thom Rainier/Female Trevelyan, Blackwall/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall/Trevelyan (Dragon Age)
Series: Flesh and Bone [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975525
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	Flesh and Bone

She stumbled on the top stair, giddy with more than ale; there was no chance she would fall but he caught her anyway, wrapping solid arms around her waist. 

"Careful there."

"You've made me dizzy." 

"You can talk," he growled, nuzzling into her neck. 

Isobel giggled. Actually _giggled_ , like a debutante at a ball. This wasn't like her, none of it; not the part that half-dragged him from the tavern into a shadowed nook and let him kiss her until her lips were swollen, and certainly not the part that near-flew up the stairs to his quarters. 

If you could call them that. Not her first time up here above the stables, but never this late before. Never with the unspoken intent between them, because what else could be expected? 

No, this wasn't like Isobel. But how long could a lady wait? 

"It's not too late to go back to your quarters." Blackwall released her, an apology creeping into his voice. She chose to misunderstand. 

"Would you rather go there? I honestly don't mind." Pins were falling loose from her dishevelled hair; she plucked them out. 

"My lady -" 

"It's awfully strange for you to call me that now," she teased, but he didn't smile even when she twined her arms around his neck. 

"Isobel."

"Better."

His gaze dropped to where the top of her tunic gaped. "Sorry for that."

"I've been bruised before. I will be again."

"I'm a brute."

"Promise?" 

"Isobel," he groaned, grip tightening on her waist. 

_Does anyone call you Gordon?_

_Nobody, my lady, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't start._

"Blackwall." She felt so strange, almost floating from the waist down. _Bold in deed,_ she thought and pulled him into another fierce kiss, one that lasted until he broke away, hands framing her face. His eyes were shadowed, face unreadable in the tallow candlelight. 

"Give me a moment." He turned from her and began to unfasten his gambeson. 

Isobel plonked herself down on the straw pallet that passed for a bed and began unlacing her boots. "This isn't so uncomfortable."

"No?" Shrugging the gambeson loose, he worked his shirt free of his trousers. "I've had months to beat it into shape." The shirt went up and over his head.

It was nothing she hadn't seen before, of course. Out in the field there were injuries that must be patched, and they all existed in close quarters. Blackwall of all of them - save perhaps Vivienne - was the most fastidiously clean, and even in the cold he could be seen stripped to the waist and headed to the nearest body of water. Now he tossed his garments aside and dipped a length of flannel into a basin, efficiently wiping himself down. 

He glanced over his shoulder. "Don't mind me."

"I don't." Broad and muscled, here and there a silvery rope of scar tissue cutting through a thatch of dark hair. "I wouldn't have guessed a hermit would be so invested in cleanliness."

He shrugged. "Old habits die hard."

"Should I bathe too, then…?"

Gruff laughter. "I wouldn't complain about the view, but there's no copper tub up here."

"I don't need that."

"You don't," he replied. "You're fine. More than fine."

She couldn't say why that caused such a shudder through her. In an effort to regain her composure, she kicked her boots aside and stood facing away from him, unfastening the last of her tunic. Next the buttery-soft linen of her undershirt and breastband, and finally she wriggled free of her breeches. 

_Oh,_ she thought. _There's no going back now, Trevelyan._

When she turned around Blackwall had taken her place on the bed; his eyes flickered over her and away as if burned. 

"You can look at me, you know. I won't catch on fire."

He gave a laugh made of rusty gears. "I might." Nevertheless, he dragged his gaze back to her body. She barely fought the urge to cover herself, scratching nervously at her neck. 

"How grave you look." And he did, brows drawn in and his lips pressed thin. "You look like you want to run away."

He swallowed. "Perhaps I should."

"Oh? Shall I put my clothes back on, then?" 

His eyes darted away again, even as his head shook. "You're fucking magnificent."

When he said it that way, so low and hoarse as to sound almost pained, she had no choice but to believe it. 

Maker, but he looked…hungry. Palms smoothing down his thighs, heavy-lidded gaze following the path his hands would take. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. 

"You don't want me to go?" How she sounded so calm, she had no idea. Not when the answer could shatter her. 

"No." Blackwall remained seated, his hands clasped firmly on his knees. She bit the knuckle of her thumb, just for a second - _act like a lady, Izzie, please_ \- then approached him as if she weren't near-naked, as if this weren't the greatest challenge she'd faced. 

Blunt-nailed, strong fingers. They'd gripped her through fabric and leather, dragged along the soft skin of her neck. Now he reached, eyes apologetic, and curled those broad hands around the backs of her knees. Down to her calves, up to her thighs; the air left her lungs in a rushed sigh, flame leaping up her skin. 

"How are you so…" He shook his head. 

"Just flesh and bone," she reminded him, "the same as you."

"Not the same." He pressed a kiss to her hip, and the unexpected rush of sensation almost made her knees buckle.

"Just a woman, though. Nobody's saviour. Nobody's Herald." That much was clear, since Adamant. 

"Wrong." His hands crept upward now: rough, warrior's hands, but so were hers. She dragged calloused fingertips up to the nape of his neck and made short work of the thong there; carded her fingers through his hair until he moaned aloud. 

"You might not be the Herald," he told her, "but you're a saviour. Mine, if that's all you'll believe."

"I'll believe anything you say, if you - ah!" Fingers tightened in his hair; lips fastened on her chilled breast and a hot tongue flicked against her nipple. "Please," she sighed. 

"Please?" 

"Don't stop."

"Couldn't if I wanted to." A hand kneaded at one breast, while his mouth worked at the other. "You're fucking magnificent." His voice frayed. "Your body, your tits - fuck, I'm sorry."

"Don't be." How could she still speak, when his hands…? "I never liked them, to be honest."

He snorted, incredulous "What's not to like?"

"I -" Shit, his lips in the valley between her breasts and his fingertips scraping - "They appeared out of nowhere, got in the way of everything worth doing at thirteen. Reminded me I'd never be a warrior."

"Yet here you are."

"Despite my…tits." For all the time she'd spent being one of the boys, this might be the first time she'd ever said the word. From her mouth it sounded ridiculous. "One more thing to overcome."

His sorrowful eyes met hers. "There's nothing to overcome here, my lady. You're beautiful." Kneading, bending to kiss and suckle, his voice muffled against her flesh. "Fucking beautiful."

" _You_ are." She meant it. 

"Now I know you're daft."

"Good." Why had she been afraid that she wouldn't know what to do? It was all she could manage not to grind against him, to force his hands to where she needed to be touched. She stepped back, swaying just a little.

"Here." Unsteady hands guided his thumbs to her hips, and without question he hooked them in her smalls. A series of quick tugs saw them down to her ankles, and away. 

It was intuitive, really - she climbed into his lap and he grabbed her arse, her hands scrambling at his belt buckle. 

"Isobel.." 

She stopped his mouth with a kiss. Hard and then soft, messy with want as they both fumbled him free of his trousers. With a groan of reluctance he hoisted her closer, and she felt his fingers slide between her copper curls, desire snapping sudden and hard as the closing of a rift. 

"Please," she moaned, and ground down on his hand. "Please, please…"

Blackwall chuckled, fingers quickening. "Impatient, are we?" In a single fluid move he flipped her onto her back, drawing her leg up and oh - OH - 

She couldn't hide her whimper, although the pain was fleeting. He froze above her, brows knit. 

"Isobel?" 

"I'm fine."

"Was it - you _have_ done this before?" 

"No. It's fine." She reached to cup his jaw. "I trust you."

Blackwall's eyes clouded with pain. "You shouldn't."

"Why?" The initial pain had faded, and left behind a pleasant ache. "What are you going to do to me?" 

His laugh was almost a choke: his head fell to her shoulder. "You're the death of me." Still, his hips stirred against hers. 

She rolled against him. "See? Nothing's broken."

"Oh." He began to move, and his lips again found her throat. "I am."

"I don't mind." There wasn't much spare flesh on him, just enough to dig her fingers in. She found his buttocks and squeezed, pulling him against her: he made a wounded, desperate sound. 

"Do you -" he gasped, "Have you taken care of…?" 

Bitter herbs, just in case - "Yes."

"Can I…?"

"Oh Maker, yes."

"It's been too long…" 

"Blackwall." Nails scrabbled at his back; heels scraped his thighs. "I love you." 

"Isobel." A pained sound, and his hips snapped against hers; there was a surge in her nerves, blissful enough to forgive the ache he left behind. "I didn't want…I'm sorry."

"Hush." Breathing raggedly, she pulled him to her chest. "Why be sorry?" 

"It shouldn't be me. Here, like this. If I could tell you…'

"Silly." Her long legs wrapped around his. "Tell me tomorrow, then."

"I might, at that."

"Tell me you love me, now."

There might have been a moment of hesitation, but he was hoarse with sincerity when he answered. "I love you." He gathered her close, stroking her hair. "I do love you. Remember it.'

Isobel felt herself drifting; she pressed a kiss to his damp temple. "Love you," she murmured sleepily. "Blackwall."


End file.
